


John Watson Is Not Gay

by ECYRegan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-14 23:49:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7196285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ECYRegan/pseuds/ECYRegan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...the thought is bizarre and John quickly drops it, drops everything really, because these days its rare for his life to slow down enough for him to think and analyze anything, before his phone is vibrating from a text, always signed SH, and John will have his coat on and be rushing out for a cab before he’s fully aware he’s moving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Watson Is Not Gay

John Hamish (he will actually punch you) Watson is not gay.  Not that there’s anything wrong with being- after all, his sister is, and he’s been in the army, some of his mates down at the pub are, he’s perfectly comfortable with it, and all of that generally boils down to the fact that it’s all  _fine._

 

In fact, he’s even willing to admit, from a completely platonic, objective, third person perspective that there is something incredibly striking about Sherlock; coat collar and cheekbones as he’s said in the past- and if in fact Sherlock _was_ gay… well, it wouldn’t be any of his business anyway.

 

Truth is though, regardless of how much of his business it might or might not be, John is  _curious._  He’s a doctor,  _and_  he’s a fully functioning male nearing his forties at an alarming rate, so he  _knows_ how the human body works, so he knows Sherlock must have  _some_  sort of…  urges.  

 

But the thought is bizarre and John quickly drops it, drops everything really, because these days its rare for his life to slow down enough for him to think and analyze anything, much less Sherlock Holmes’ sex life (or lack thereof), before his phone is vibrating from a text, always signed SH, and John will have his coat on and be rushing out for a cab before he’s fully aware he’s moving.  

 

It doesn’t matter where he is, or what he’s doing (on one memorable occasion, he was actually out of his trousers and had his hand up the shirt of the brunette teacher he’d met at  _Speedy’s_  when his phone buzzed and he had stumbled out of her flat with barely an explanation, trousers still around his ankles, hastily pulling up his pants.)  

 

John doesn’t know how he’s managed to keep his job after all this time; at first he thought perhaps it was his  _curriculum vitae_ , but the past year or so he’s spent more time out of work than in, that any fresh faced youth just out of medical school might do a better job than him.   On the days that he actually does make it in to work, he’s distracted, or dashing back out the door the moment he steps over the threshold.  He doesn’t ask Sarah, doesn’t really want to, because on the impossibility that she hasn’t realized, he doesn’t want to draw attention to the increasing liability he is becoming to the surgery.

 

On days like this one, as John sits in the back of the cab, watching London pass by outside, he wonders very briefly what his life would be like without this rush, this  _thrill_ , the  _game._   It’s akin to the feeling that he’d chased all his life without fully knowing it till Mycroft Holmes had welcomed him back to the battlefield.  The same feeling John had when Harry had dared him to swim across the strand and he almost drowned, the feeling that had him tackling the armed robber who had been waving a knife around at the man behind the till, the feeling that had driven him to Afghanistan.  

 

The thing is though, the game is so much more  _fun._  Maybe John needed the thrill of almost being swept away by the unforgiving current in the unforgiving waters, and perhaps he had needed Afghanistan to know that he was  _there_ , in the land of nightmares and death, making a difference.  He had needed them, like the air to breathe or the beating of his heart in his chest.  The  _game_  is so much more.  The game is everything.

 

And it is Sherlock who introduced it to him.

 

It is a brief thought though, and John is out of the cab, Sherlock appearing in a swirl of dark fabric and flurry of insults towards the general incompetence of Lestrade, the overwhelming idiocy of Anderson and Donavan combined and a declaration of John’s marginally less boring presence.  John of course will follow with a complaint about whatever he was doing (and here he makes an effort to recall  _what_  exactly he was doing, because he can hardly remember, but that’s a bit not good, and he will never, ever admit it), to which Sherlock will brush off easily, making some scathing remark about John’s life, usually using words that went along the lines of ‘dull,’ ‘pointless,’ ‘mediocre,’ or ‘sexual encounter that was unsatisfying on both accounts and an utter waste of time.  For the sake of the to-be-horrendously murdered inhabitants of London, John, I suggest you cease your tiresome trysts and pathetic attempts at romance, be at my beck and call and tell me how amazing I am when it’s all over.’

 

Perhaps the latter part isn’t exactly verbatim, but it is of course implied, and Sherlock will whirl off again, John wanting to punch the smug bastard in the face.  Perhaps Sherlock can’t be fully blamed though, because of course, John follows, and after it’s all over, regardless of whether they’ve just dashed through the streets and across the rooftops of London, or it’s simply them and Lestrade standing over a mangled body and Sherlock’s just finished on of his rapid-fire deduction speeches, John will let slip ‘fantastic!’ or ‘brilliant!’ or some variation thereof, and he’ll always be just a bit breathless.  Sherlock preens.  John grins at him foolishly.

 

John is not gay.

 

Scotland Yard has a pool going about them, John’s heard, and he’d bring it up with Sherlock, only he knows the man won’t care much, perhaps mutter‘boring’ or ‘nonsensical,’ submit a brief but withering account of the (incredibly lacking) contents of Anderson’s head, then flop back down on the couch, fingers steepled beneath his chin, instantly back in his mind palace, a million miles away.

 

John was bothered at first.  Money being placed on him, a straight man, to…  what?  Shag his (asexual?) male flatmate?  It was childish and he had raised his voice an indecent amount when it had come up with Donavan, to the extent where Lestrade had taken him to a side and asked him politely but firmly to restrain himself.

 

“But I don’t see  _why,_ ” John hissed one night, out at a pub with Lestrade,   “We live together, granted, but so do plenty of other straight blokes.”

 

“Yeah, but it’s Sherlock isn’t it?” said Lestrade, taking a generous gulp of his pint, “no-one’s gotten along with him since we’ve known him, not a single person, and here you come, living with him, and you haven’t gone screaming yet.”  He lifted his glass in a mock toast.  “You can’t really blame us for thinking.”

 

John sighed.   “But it's.... _Sherlock_ \- you said it yourself.  He’s probably asexual for all I know- or perhaps it’s a Holmes thing.  Him and his brother…  they’re so pristine, even when Sherlock’s covered in pig’s blood or covered in Thames sludge, I just don’t know how he does it.  Have you met his brother?  Mycroft Holmes, bloody umbrella at his side wherever he goes- bit creepy?”

 

“He is well put together, isn’t he?”

 

John pauses at the sudden contemplative note in Lestrade’s voice, and his eyes narrow.  “No…”

 

Lestrade saves answering and exchanges it for another long draught of his beer.  He splutters slightly when he emerges, but tries to maintain composure.  

 

“No, but really?”

 

Lestrade coughs; attempts to waylay John.  “The new PC- Rivers, just threw in ten quid yesterday for you two to shag before the end of this month.”

 

It works.  

 

“Bloody hell, I’m straight!  Honestly Greg, I mean, you’ve met some of my girlfriends.”

 

“But that’s the point, mate- you can’t keep them.  Ever wondered why?”

 

John has actually, and he knows the answer, because in Sherlock’s words, this was something even Anderson could deduce.  Sometimes John thinks with the amount Sherlock interferes with his dating and work, it’s like his whole life has paused around this brilliant man.

 

Then he thinks that isn’t true.  It hasn’t been that way for a long time.  Because the game isn’t some phase in his life preventing other things from getting through; the game has somehow become his life.  He likes the game, doesn’t ever want it to stop, and wouldn’t give it up for most of anything. He lives for the buzz of his phone or Sherlock’s yell of ‘ _John!_.’

 

John thinks he could live the rest of his life like this, quite happily.  If only people would stop calling him a bachelor or hinting towards the sound of (now legal!) wedding bells.  

 

Sherlock’s voice, demanding John’s attention is a regular occurrence.  The world isn’t right without his petulant moods if John isn’t at his beck and call, and in return when it is John yelling Sherlock’s name, more often than not it’s in annoyance.  ‘Oh, he’s shot up the wall again!’ ‘Fuck, he’s left me in the middle of some obscure part of London!’ ‘No you  _can’t_  just announce that it was the mother’s stupidity that killed the son!’

 

Rarely is it in such desperation.

 

“ _SHERLOCK!_ ”

 

When John sees Sherlock fall (jump- oh  _fuck_  he  _jumped_ ), he doesn’t see his life unravel before his eyes, he doesn’t see the game evaporate and turn to mist; he sees nothing but  _Sherlock_ , his friend, his best friend, and in the end, just a man, plummet to his death.

 

It’s only later when he realizes all the things he hadn’t in the several heart stopping moments when he watched Sherlock fall (jump-  _no he couldn’t have jumped, he just couldn’t have-_ ).  Realizes that now…  now when he returns to Baker Street, Sherlock won’t be flinging himself around in his dressing gown in a strop, that when he walks into the kitchen, there’ll be no one to yell at about the thumbs that are still in the kettle.  He’ll be alone.

 

There is a funeral, and John can’t for the life of him remember it afterward.  He can remember standing before the gravestone, telling the cold marble (so much like the man, yet so incredibly different) that he was the best and wisest man he had ever known, all but spitting out his request for a miracle, because if he isn’t harsh then he might just break out sobbing in the dirt before the grave, and before this  _fucking_  slab of stone that is the clearest, most definitive and final end to the life of Sherlock Holmes, John won’t cry.  He has more pride in himself for his best friend.

 

Of course when John returns to the flat and finds Mycroft in the living room holding Sherlock’s Stradivarius, with an almost painful carefulness and an odd look on his face, John’s pride leaves him so abruptly his legs give out and he staggers forwards; all but collapsing against the British Government and proceeding to sob helplessly against the several thousand pound suit.

 

John may have hated Mycroft for a while, but he can’t now, he can’t, because this is the man who created the image John has in his mind of a tiny scrap of a boy, with wild curls and a three pointed hat balanced precariously atop.  John may have lost everything ( _everything;_ Sherlock was _everything_ ), but seeing Sherlock’s brother holding his violin, John knows he is not the only one.  So perhaps he does ruin Mycroft’s suit, and neither of them talk of that night afterward; the night when John isn’t sure whether or not if it was the haze of his own tears that had given a glossy sheen to the Iceman’s eyes.

 

John would like to say life goes on.

 

He’d like to say a lot of things really.

 

He’d like for Mrs Hudson to stop treating him like he’s some wounded thing.  He’d like for Mycroft to stop paying his rent like he’s now incapable of sustaining himself.  He wants the newspapers to stop printing utter filth about Sherlock.  He’d like the rest of the world to go and fuck themselves, thanks very much.  He’d like to enter the kitchen in Baker Street one night and find another severed head in the fridge.  It’d be concerning (if he cared at all) how much he wants to find limbs in the showerbox these days, or how he longs to have to duck from the occasional flying cup or dagger respectively.

 

He wants to have his phone buzz in his pocket when he’s out for a pint, wants Lestrade’s eyes to glint suggestively when he his hand is already reaching and unlocking before he registers.  He wants to drown in the beer he staring into, and he wants…  he wants too much to receive any of it.

 

“Mycroft keeps asking after you,” says Lestrade, “are you eating, are you sleeping- you’d think he was a stalker, but all things considered he’s actually doing quite well…  he’s even stopped the twenty four hour surveillance he ordered.”  There’s a distinct fondness in Lestrade’s voice that rings with familiarity, and so John speaks.  

 

“Tell him.”

 

Lestrade blinks over at John.  “What?”

 

“Tell Mycroft,” enunciates John clearly.  He doesn’t have to say what. 

 

To Lestrade’s credit, he quickly drops his façade of ignorance, and he stares into his pint glass.  “John…  it’s not…  I wouldn’t know how he’d respond.”

 

“But at least he’d know.  At least  _you’d_ know, instead of wondering ‘what if’ for the rest of your life.”

 

Lestrade does not look up from his pint, makes no indication that he has heard at all, other than the systematic clenching of his hand around the handle of the glass.  “I…” he says eventually, before pausing again, “I’ll call him…  meet…  I’ll tell him later...  tomorrow.”

 

And John wants to throw his pint through a window.  “Call him now.  Tell him  _now._   Because there’s an eternity between now and the morning, and ‘I’ll tell him tomorrow’ will turn into weeks and months and years until suddenly all your tomorrows are used up and you’re left never knowing if  _today_  might’ve made a difference.”

 

Lestrade has had several pints, but when he looks at John, his eyes are as clear as glass.  “You loved him, didn’t you mate?”

 

“Yes,” says John.  “Now go find Mycroft.”

 

Lestrade goes, his eyes distant and focused on something only he can see, but his stride is purposeful, and for a second, John cannot breathe for the envy.  He gets to his feet too.  The noise of the pub is growing, and he throws down several notes before he makes his way out of the room.  He could stay, try to pull some girl and in an hour’s time he would be trudging home, a heavy feeling in his gut to match the leaden blocks tied to his feet.  He might as well save his time.

 

It is a little past midnight when John's phone buzzes.  It has been several months, but the furniture still goes flying as John reaches for his phone, heart beating fast and hard in his ears to see- 

 

_Sherlock would have wanted you happy  -MH_

 

The phone slips from John’s fingers and he makes for the bathroom.  He is no Holmes, but he knows that it is Mycroft, saying thank you, and knows there is a Holmes brother out there who has a John at their side again.  Because John  _understands_  now.  Understands that Holmeses  _need_  people like him in their lives.  People who accept and understand and  _love_  regardless of the emotional equivalent of Fort Knox barriers, who see the brilliance and can admire endlessly, only to see the man beneath at the same time; the man who requires every bit as much recognition as the genius.  John is so unspeakably  _glad_ for them both, yet he aches twice as much with the wish that Sherlock were here, dry retching into a bowl at the thought of his brother in a relationship.  

 

Life doesn’t go on.  Time moves, John supposes, it goes by and every second is an eternity, and they pass as well.  The world is quiet and still and  _pointless_ , it feels as though he has slipped into a new realm where colours are dull and people are tedious, and is  _this_  how Sherlock lived his life every day? The work had been his life, and so when it was gone, was it really such a shock that he would follow?  ( _Yes, yes it was, because there was more to live for- there was Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs Hudson- himself- the selfish bastard had thrown himself of a roof and John had never known anyone as selfish as he, but if Sherlock were to walk through the door right now, John would-_ )

 

A year drags by.  A year and six months.  John doesn’t know how it happened, has never known  _existing_  to be so hard.  He does not see Lestrade often.  They’ve been to the pub a couple of times in the year and a half, never mentioned Mycroft again.  John thinks it’s going well, whatever it is.  Lestrade isn’t wearing his ring anymore, and John has caught whiffs of an expensive shampoo on him. (Sherlock would have been disgusted.)  He wants the best for them, but he cannot bear to see Mycroft ( _haughty expression, trademark Holmesian way of looking at you with too-pale eyes and mouths quirking upwards as they read you like a book_ ) and Lestrade is a good mate, but John looks at Lestrade and sees Mycroft, he sees Sherlock, he feels ill.  

 

He stops seeing women.  He stopped seeing them a while ago actually, even before Sherlock fell ( _jumped- even now, why, why did he jump?_ ) but now it feels like more of his own decision.  He hasn’t gotten laid in perhaps two years, and finds he simply doesn’t care.  Until Mary.

 

Mary is the new nurse at the surgery, and she smiles at John every time they cross paths during hours.  For the first time in a year and a half, something eases in his chest.  A year and a half ago, he would have asked her out for coffee; now it is she who extends the invitation, and he finds himself in a small shop, her talking animatedly, he laughing, less brokenly, more unexpected pleasure. He goes home that night feeling alive, more than he has in so long.   _Mary._   One date and she is as close to his perfect as he has ever met.  

 

_Sherlock would have wanted you happy- MH_

 

Sherlock is dead.  

 

Mary smiles at him the next day, asks if he’d like to meet after work.  John smiles back, weary, broken, resigned.  She’s a brilliant woman.  She could be everything he’d scolded Sherlock for preventing him pursuing.  He says no.  She understands.  She is perfect after all.

 

Sherlock was imperfect.  His imperfections could have filled an entire library; how one single man could hold so many was beyond John, but he in his whirlwind carelessness had fixed the sad army doctor, stitched him up and set him on his feet, and John  _knows_  he cares.  Either way though, that’d be alright because John, who shipped off to Afghanistan, to an active warzone, could care enough for the both of them combined.

 

Two years since the fall (the jump).  John is fairly certain Lestrade is living with Mycroft.  He arrives at the pub in one of Mycroft’s sleek jaguars, uncomfortable and muttering about the unnecessary pomp and circumstance, leaves in the same car that somehow slides to the sidewalk the moment he exits the pub.  The night that John decides to ask, he asks because there’s a ring on Lestrade’s finger again.  Silver this time- platinum if he had to hazard a guess.  “What’s it like?”

 

He isn’t specific.  He doesn’t need to be.  

 

Lestrade runs a hand through thick silver hair and smiles almost unconsciously.  “It’s like…  it's like this.  My ex-wife screwed me over, many times.  After her…  relationships were…  I’d had enough.  I’d had a taste and in the end I decided it wasn’t worth it, that I’d rather they not be for me, that I’d focus on work.  With Mycroft, it was a fanciful dream at first.  Both workaholics, but I thought if we cared enough we could make it work, to find the quiet moments.  It was a risk and one we both took, but somehow I just knew-” Lestrade shook his head, “no.  It’s like this.”  He looked at John, pint in hand and face illuminated by the lights above.  “You’re not gay."  John cannot bring himself to sigh ' _finally_.'  It's years too late.  Lestrade nods. "Neither am I.  That’s what it is to love a Holmes.”

 

Later, John trudges up the steps to their (his) flat and on the final step, his phone buzzes.  It has been two years, and John’s hand reaches slowly for his phone, knowing this is his life now. 

 

_Think of Mrs Hudson’s heart- MH_

 

John looks up, thinking of Mrs Hudson’s heart, and the yell (hysterical laughter) (hysterical sobbing) twists in his chest, he cannot  _speak_ \- the door to 221B swings open before his fingertips touch wood; alabaster skin, wild curls, the goddamned  _coat_ \- Sherlock Holmes, back from the dead, slamming into John’s life with all the force of a freight train and about as much subtlety, rasps “not dead _._ ”

 

John cannot  _breathe_ , but even death cannot erase Sherlock's inconsideration, and he has enough breath to say the only thing that really matters anyway, the only thing he ever needs to say: “ _brilliant._ ”


End file.
